Family Honor - Robert B Parker Read online

  "Why does she run away?" I said.

  Patton shook his head slowly, and bit his lower lip for a moment.

  Both movements seemed practiced. "Teenaged girls," he said.

  "I was a teenaged girl," I said.

  "And I'll bet a cute one, Sunny."

  "Indescribably," I said, "but I didn't run away."

  "Well, of course, not all teenagers ..."

  "Things all right here?" I said.

  "Here?"

  "Yes. This is what she ran away from."

  "Oh, well, I suppose ... everything is fine here."

  I nodded. To my right the fireplace crackled and danced. No heat radiated from it. The air-conditioned room remained cold. The windows fogged with condensation in which the rain streaked little patterns.

  "So why did she run away?"

  "Really, Sunny," Patton said. "I am trying to decide whether to hire you to find her."

  "And I'm trying to decide, Brock, if you do offer me the job, whether I wish to take it."

  "Awfully feisty," Patton said, "for someone so attractive."

  I decided not to blush prettily. He stood suddenly. "Do you have a gun, Sunny?"

  "Yes."

  "With you?"

  "Yes.

  "Can you shoot it?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm something of a shooter myself," Patton said. "I'd like to see you shoot. Do you mind walking outside in the rain with me?"

  Other than the fact that my hair would get wet and turn into limp corn silk? But there was something interesting happening here. I wasn't sure what it was, but I didn't want to miss it.

  "I don't mind," I said.

  He took an umbrella from a stand beside the French doors behind his desk. He opened the doors and we went out into the rain. He held the umbrella so that I had to put my arm through his to stay under cover. We walked across the soft wet grass, my heels sinking in uncomfortably. Maybe there should be a new rule about wearing heels when I was working. Maybe the new rule would be, never. On the far side of the croquet lawn, and shielded from it by a grove of trees, was an open shed with a sort of counter across one side and a wood-shingled roof. We went to the shed and under the roof. Patton closed the umbrella. He took a key from his pocket and opened a cabinet under the counter and took out something that looked like a small clay frisbee.

  "What have you for a weapon," Patton said.

  I took out my 38 Special.

  "Well, very quick," he said. "Think you could hit anything with that?"

  There was a test going on, and I didn't know quite what was being tested.

  "Probably," I said.

  He smiled down at me.

  "I doubt that you can hit much with that thing," he said.

  "What is your plan?" I said.

  "I'll toss this in the air, and you put a bullet through it."

  If I did that using a handgun with a two-inch barrel it would be by accident. He knew it.

  "I'll toss it up here," he said, "it's safe to fire toward the river." He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I nodded. He smiled as if to himself and stepped out of the shed and tossed the disk maybe thirty feet straight up into the air. I didn't move. The disk hit its zenith and came down and landed softly on the wet grass about eight feet beyond the shed. And lay on its side. I walked out of the shed, and over to the disk, and standing directly above it, I put a bullet through the middle of it from a distance of about eighteen inches. The disk shattered. Patton stared at me.

  "I don't need to be able to shoot something falling through the air thirty feet away," I said. "This gun is quite effective at this range, Brock, which is about the only range I'll ever need it for."

  I put the gun away. Patton nodded and stared at the disk fragments for a moment or two; then he picked up the umbrella and opened it and handed it to me.

  "Come back in," he said. "I'd like you to meet my wife."

  Then he walked away bareheaded in the nice rain. I followed him, alone under the umbrella.

  CHAPTER 2

  Betty Patton was far too perfect. She annoyed me on sight in the same way Martha Stewart does. Her hair was too smooth. Her makeup was too subtle. Her legs were too shapely. Her pale yellow linen dress fit her much too well. She sat with one perfect leg crossed over the other in a low armchair in the study sipping coffee. The cup and saucer were bone-colored. There was a slim gold band around the rim of the cup. When Brock introduced us, she smiled without rising and offered her hand gracefully. Her handshake was firm but feminine. She said she was pleased to meet me. She called me Ms. Randall. I don't know how she did it, but any neutral observer would have known at once that Betty was the employer, and I was the employee. "You've been shooting," Betty said. "Yes."

  "Can she shoot, Brock?"

  "Well, sort of," Brock said.

  "Did you ask Brock to shoot, Ms. Randall?"

  "No," I said. "I didn't."

  "Oh, well, you've disappointed him badly then. That was the real point of the exercise."

  I had nothing to say about that, and I said it. The decorative fire was still burning vigorously. A servant must have fed it while we were out. The air-conditioning was still fogging the glass in the French doors.

  "I think Ms. Randall is who we need," Brock said.

  Betty smiled and sipped her coffee. She didn't spill a drop on her dress. She wouldn't.

  "I rather expected you to think so," Betty said when the elegant cup was perfectly centered back in the elegant saucer. "She's quite pretty."

  "She has a good background," Brock said. "She is straightforward. And I have the sense that she is discreet."

  Discreet about what?

  "Do you think you can find our Millicent?" Betty said, leaning forward slightly as if to make her question more compelling. Like her husband, she seemed incapable of an unrehearsed gesture.

  "Probably," I said.

  "Because?"

  "Because I'm really quite good at this."

  Betty smiled interiorly.

  "Odd profession for a woman," she said.

  "Everyone says that."

  "Really?"

  I knew it would annoy her to be clumped in with everyone.

  "Yes," I said. "Usually they say it just as you did."

  "Are you married?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Ever been married?"

  "Yes."

  "So you're not a lesbian."

  "Having been married doesn't prove it."

  "Well, are you?"

  "I guess that's not germane."

  Betty stared at me for a moment. A perfect little frown line appeared between her flawless eyebrows.

  "That's rather uppity, Miss Randall," she said.

  "Oh, I can be much more uppity than this, Mrs. Patton."

  She was motionless for a moment and then turned to her husband.

  "I'm afraid she won't do, Brock."

  "Oh for God's sake, Betty. Maybe you could stop being a bitch for a minute."

  Again Betty was motionless. Then she put her cup and saucer on the coffee table, and rose effortlessly, the way a dancer might, and walked from the room without another word. I watched her husband watch her go. There was nothing in his look that told me what he felt about her. Maybe that was what he felt about her.

  "Don't mind Betty," he said finally. "She can be difficult."

  "I would imagine," I said.

  He smiled. "She'd have preferred someone less attractive."

  "I'm trying," I said.

  He smiled widely. "And failing, may I say."

  I nodded. "Your daubhter's name is Millicent?"

  "Yes -Millie."

  "When did she disappear?"

  "She hasn't disappeared," Patton said. "She's run off."

  "When did she run off?"

  "Ah, today is Wednesday," he leaned forward and looked at the calendar on his desk. "She went not this past Monday, but, all, a week ago Monday."

  "Ten days?" I said.

  "Yes. I know it see
ms long, but, well, we weren't too worried at first."

  "She's done this before," I said.

  "Well, in a sense, that is, she's gone off to stay with a friend for a couple of days."

  "Without telling you."

  "You know how rebellious teenagers are," he said.

  "I'm not judging your daughter or you, Mr. Patton. I'm trying to find a place to start."

  "I have a picture," he said.

  He took a manila envelope out of his desk drawer, and handed it across to me. I took the picture out and looked at it. It was a good picture, not one of those bright-colored school photos in the cardboard folders that I used to bring home every year. It showed a pretty girl, perhaps fifteen, with straight blond hair and her mother's even features. There was no sign of life in the picture. Her eyes were blank. She seemed to be wearing her face like a mask.

  "Pretty, isn't she," he said.

  "Yes. This a good likeness?"

  "Of course, why do you ask?"

  "Well, just that sometimes people look a little more, ah, relaxed in real life, than they do in studio photographs."

  "That's a good likeness of Millie," he said. "May I keep this?"

  "Of course."

  "You know what she was wearing when she left?"

  "No, I'm sorry, she had so many clothes."

  "Take anything with her?"

  He shook his head, with that false helplessness men like to adopt when talking about women.

  "And have you any suggestion where I should start?"

  "You might ask at the school?"

  "Which is?"

  "Pinkett School," he said. "In Belmont. The headmistress is Pauline Plum."

  Pauline Plum. From Pinkett. How darling.

  CHAPTER 3

  "What was he like?" Julie said. Behind Julie, the light was slanting into my loft from the South Boston waterfront. It came in through the big window at the east end, and splashed over my easel, making an elongated Ichabod Crane shadow on the floor. Just out of the shadow, in the warmest part of the sunlight, my bull terrier, Rosie, was lying on her back with her feet in the air and her head lolled over so she could keep an almond-shaped eye on our breakfast.

  "Tall, cute little crow's-feet around the eyes," I said. "Great hair."

  "Nice?"

  "A little impressed with himself."

  "But you liked him?"

  "Not much," I said.

  Julie took a bite of her sesame seed bagel and a sip of her coffee. "Money?"

  "It would seem so. Huge house, servants, a croquet lawn, trap shooting, river view."

  "In South Natick?"

  "There's still land left there," I said. "This is a very big property."

  Rosie got up and came over and sat the way bull terriers do with her tail balancing the back of her and her butt several inches from the ground. She looked steadily at me now, her narrow black eyes implacable in their desire for a bite. I broke off a piece of bagel and handed it to her.

  "How about the wife?"

  I had a mouthful of coffee and couldn't answer so I just shook my head.

  "We don't like the wife," Julie said.

  I swallowed the coffee.

  "No, we don't," I said. "Arrogant, impeccable, condescending."

  "God, I hate impeccable," Julie said. "They get along?"

  "Maybe not. I almost had the sense she was jealous of me."

  "Oh ho," Julie said. "He seem interested in you?"

  "He might have been."

  "Well, that's not so bad. Tall, crinkly, rich, and interested."

  "And married."

  "That doesn't have to be an obstacle," Julie said.

  "It is to you."

  "Well yes, but Michael and I get along," Julie said. "And even if I wanted to cheat I'd have to get a baby-sitter."

  Julie was always eager for me to have an affair, I think, so she could hear about it afterward.

  "How is life among the rug rats?" I said.

  "Mikey has discovered that if he doesn't eat I go crazy."

  "It's good to have a resourceful kid."

  "The little bastard won't eat anything but macaroni with butter on it."

  "So?"

  "So it's not balanced."

  "Oh hell," I said. "People live quite well on a lot worse."

  "He needs protein and vegetables."

  "Maybe he sneaks some when you're not looking. You're the psychiatric social worker," I said.

  "What would you say to someone about that?"

  "That it's one of the few areas where he can exercise control," Julie said. "I can't force him to eat."

  I nodded encouragingly.

  "Like toilet training," Julie said.

  "Didn't you have trouble toilet-training him?" I said.

  "So what do I tell the pediatrician when she tells me he's malnourished."

  "Tell her he'll get over it," I said.

  "Oh sure. It's easy ... you haven't got any children."

  "All I did was ask a couple of questions. Besides, I have Rosie."

  "Whom you spoil horrendously."

  "So?" I said. "Your point?"

  Julie finished her sandwich. "I can't wait," she started.

  And I finished for her, "Until you have kids!"

  We both laughed.

  "The mother's curse," Julie said. "How old is this girl you're looking for?"

  "Fifteen," I said.

  We were through breakfast and putting the dishes into the dishwasher.

  "Pretty?"

  "Come on down to the office," I said, "I'll show you her picture."

  The kitchen was in the middle of the loft. Behind it was my bedroom. The east end was where I painted. The west end was my office. Julie and I stood near my desk looking down at the picture of Millicent Patton. Rosie followed us and flopped down behind me. I knew she was annoyed. She never understood why I couldn't just stay still near where she was sleeping.

  "Well, at least she doesn't have purple hair and a ring in her nose," Julie said.

  "At least not in the picture," I said.

  "If things are good at home," Julie said, "kids don't run away."

  "True," I said. "But what defines bad at home will vary a lot from kid to kid."

  "So where will you start looking for this little girl?" Julie said.

  "Do the easy things first," I said. "Call the local police to see if they've picked up a juvenile that might be Millicent or found any unidentified bodies that might be Millicent."

  Julie shook her head as if to make the thought go away. "Have you done that?"

  "Yes. No one fits."

  "Good. Now what?"

  "Where do young girls usually end up when they run away from home?"

  "Prostitution," Julie said. I nodded.

  "You say that to her parents?"

  "No."

  "What if you find her and she doesn't want to leave?"

  "I'll urge her," I said.

  "What if there's a pimp?"

  "There's almost always a pimp," I said.

  "Maybe you should ask Richie to go with you."

  "I can't do this work if I have to ask my ex-husband to protect me."

  In the quiet I could hear some of the trucks grinding along Congress Street in low gear as they hauled stuff to or from the new tunnel site.

  "I have never understood why you do this work, anyway," Julie said.

  "I know," I said.

  "Maybe if you gave me a reasonable explanation..."

  "It pays for my painting."

  "Shouldn't the painting pay for itself?" Julie said.

  "Day at a time," I said. "It also pays for my MFA."

  "Which you've been pursuing since I was childless."

  "Night at a time," I said.

  "Sunny," she said. "I've known you all my life and I don't understand you."

  "At least you know it," I said. Julie looked at her watch.

  "My God," she said, "I'm late, late. I love you, babe, you know that."

  "I love
you, too, Jule."

  We hugged. She left. I stared at Millicent's picture for a while. Then I put Rosie in the car and went out to visit the Pinkett School.

  CHAPTER 4

  Pauline Plum from Pinkett was everything the name promised. She was tall and slim and flutie with a prominent nose and the kind of clenched-molar WASP drawl that girls used to acquire at Smith and Mount Holyoke. She was wearing one of those hideous print prairie dresses that are equally attractive on girls, women, and cattle. She made a point to introduce herself as Miss Plum. We talked in her office, on the first floor of the Pinkett School's white clapboard main building, me in a maple captain's chair with a small plaid cushion on it, Miss Plum sitting straight in her highbacked leather swivel, with her feet on the floor and her hands folded before her on the desktop.

  "Millicent Patton is not a very industrious student," she said.

  "How so?"

  "She is bright enough, at least she seems so. But she also seemed to lack any motivation."

  "Bad grades?"

  "Yes, but more than that. She isn't active in school affairs. She doesn't play a sport. She is not on the yearbook staff, she has no extracurricular activities on her transcript."

  "She is not a resident," I said.

  "No, we are not a resident school."

  "Any special friends here?"

  "Sadly, none that I know of."

  "No friends that she might have gone to visit without telling her parents?"

  "None."

  "Could she have friends you don't know about?" I said.

  "Possibly," Miss Plum said. "But I keep a close eye on my charges, and after you called I made it a point to refamiliarize myself with Millicent and her situation."

  "No boyfriends?"

  "This is a girls' school."

  "Doesn't mean she might not have a boyfriend," I said.

  "We feel dating is better left to later years," Miss Plum said. "We try to focus our girls on growing into accomplished young ladies."

  "And I'll bet you do a hell of a job," I said.

  Miss Plum frowned. Accomplished young ladies did not speak that way.

  "Our graduates usually continue their education at the best schools," she said.

  "Where do you suppose Millicent Patton is headed?"

  "I fear that perhaps a public junior college would be her only option," Miss Plum said.